Redemption & Salvation
by QuickBen
Summary: Response to Jon3776's challenge, Redemption of the Black Sisters. Seven Ladies of Darkness, Seven Ladies of Light will be the sequel.
1. Prologue

**0x0**: scene break

**-x-x-x-x-x-**: flashback

Response to Jon3776's challenge: Seven Queens of Darkness, Seven Ladies of Light.

Redemption of the Black Sisters will be the first story. Seven Queens of Darkness, Seven Ladies of Light will be the sequel.

Warnings: It's M for a reason.

Again, I'd rate this fic a NC-20, but this site doesn't have it, so tough luck. If you're not ready for it or you're not happy about it, click the small x at the top right hand corner, or hit the back key. Don't bother flaming me. If DLP members couldn't influence me otherwise, you probably can't either.

**0x0**

Acknowledgements: Lori Foster, Steven Erikson. Jon3776. Less Wrong (author of Methods of Rationality – it's a good read, go look it up.) and Sythe, author of Tis Femina (a Naruto story), Jbern gets credit for the chapter name.

No one else is included.

Period.

**0x0**

Chapter One: _Turn me loose. _

**0x0**

Seated on the soft duvet of her bed, Narcissa regarded her family's holdings once again. The figures swam and the perfectly curved handwriting blurred into a mismatched mess of black blurs. Sighing, she dropped her head forward, pressing the heel of her hands against her eyes, softly cursing the pounding migraine. Outside, the relentless rain came down, accompanied by great flashes of lightning which lit up the dark interiors of the mansion.

She liked storms, but not this one.

This time, she felt the turbulence of the weather. The air crackled with electricity – and ill intentions. Greed. Evil. And the Dark Lord's terrible anger at her sister's failure to retrieve the prophecy seemed to manifest in the very skies itself, distant sounds of thunder reverberating throughout the spacious room.

Even without the sick taint of his presence, Voldemort's overwhelming need to bring all of Wizarding Britain under heel hung thick in the air, a sickening miasma that made her nauseous. Shrugging aside the unease that clung to her like a wet cloak, she forced herself to concentrate on the tasks at hand.

The Malfoy fortunes were depleted: not depleting, dwindling, or even greatly diminished. The Malfoy fortunes were _depleted_.

She had cautioned Lucius, warned her husband that his misguided devotions to the Dark Lord would be the end of their family. He had not deigned to listen.

Worse: Lucius had been less than kind in dealing with her 'insults to the Dark Lord'.

Only the fact that she was his lawfully wedded wife spared her from becoming the plaything of his fellow compatriots. More than once, they'd expressed their base desires in crude manners. Forcing down the painful memories proved difficult, and the imagery that her subconscious mind dredged up to the surface brought the ghost of tears to her eyes. Yet in the end, fierce determination won out.

With a sweep of her hand, the mess of parchments spread atop of her covers gathered into a neat stack before inserting themselves neatly into the worn envelope, which she placed on her dresser. Come noon tomorrow, Draco would discover just how very _far_ the Malfoy family had fallen. Maybe then he would gain a clearer understanding of his circumstances.

Narcissa threw back her sheets, clutching to her breasts a nondescript envelope as she padded to the open windows, and allowed herself to wallow in the memories that suddenly assailed her, to put her regrets to rest.

The paper thin layer of protection her silk negligee offered was barely enough to ward away the biting cold, but she relished it all the same, shivering as the chilly night airs washed over her mostly bare body, tightening her nipples, caressing intimate places. The mid-July nights were cool in contrast to the sweltering heat of the day, but they reminded her just as easily of her desires.

For one, Lucius had not touched her in years. For another, sex with her husband had offered no more than base physical release. He'd never blown her mind, never burned her up. During their engagement, he'd been faithful, and she'd made do with the few, quick, and passionless intimate moments she'd gotten from him. After their marriage, he'd done no more than was necessary to beget an heir, and she'd done the same.

Desire, like so many other things in her life, had been sacrificed for her marriage.

Her ambitions for a career had been dashed, her dreams of fiery love and passion quashed, and her self-respect torn to pieces by her very own husband. Her marriage had been a sham, through and through. She'd married a man she never loved. She'd mothered a child who could never truly be hers.

She'd honored her father's wishes.

In the end, her father's wishes had proved damning and his views bigoted, backward: _biased_, but by the time she had realized this, it had been too late.

Clutched in her hand now was her only hope. It was her dear cousin's parting gift. It was a chance, a glimmer of hope, a second life.

Yet, like all gifts, it had a price to be paid.

Her slender pale fingers trembled as she read, and re-read the letter. She never doubted the authenticity of the letter. She and Sirius had been close, and she was intimately familiar with his modus operandi, his styles of writing, and even the ink he used. They'd been tight as thieves back in the days of their childhoods: Sirius, Bellatrix, herself, and dear Andromeda playing in the orchards, laughing hundreds of feet in the air…

They were happier times.

'_Help Harry defeat Voldemort' _

The echoes of Sirius's last, written words rattled in her skull, voiced by the traitorous memories she had of him in the early days.

'_Damn you, Sirius, Damn you.' _

They were happier times.

**0x0**

**-x-x-x-x-x-**

_The man was screaming, as the guards dragged him by his chains, across the courtyard to the ring-wall. His crushed feet left a bloody trail on the dirt ground. Screams of accusations wailed from him, shrill outrage at the shaping of the world – the world he envisioned. _

_Bellatrix snorted softly. "Hear him, such naivety." _

_Her Lord standing in front of her on the balcony treated her to a sharp look. "You foolish imbecile."_

"_My Lord?"_

_The Dark Lord tightened his grip on the railing and stood upright. Pale fingers slowly entwined. From somewhere overhead, a bird crowed. "Who poses the greatest threat to my world, dear, demented, Bella? My world of peace."_

"_Fanatics," she replied, after a moment, "like that one below."_

"_Wrong. Listen, and listen closely. The man below is possessed of certainty, he holds to a secure vision of the world – a world he envisioned. He believes himself correct in his judgment, in his answering retorts to life – that the prerequisite questions were themselves the correct ones goes without saying. Anyone with certainty, Bella, can be swayed, turned, and made into a most…diligent ally."_

"_All one needs to do is to find that which threatens them the most. Ignite that fear, burn to cinders the foundations of those certainties, then offer an equally certain and secure way of thinking, of seeing the world. They will reach across, no matter how wide the gulf, and grasp and hold onto you with all their strength." _

"_No, the certain are not our enemies, presently misguided, as in the case of the man below, but always most vulnerable to fear. Take away the comfort of their convictions, and then coax them with seemingly cogent and reasonable convictions of our own making. Their eventual embrace is assured."_

"_I see."_

"_Bellatrix, our greatest enemies are those who are without certainty; the ones with questions, the ones who regard our tidy answers with unquenchable cynicism. Those questions assail us, undermine us."_

"_They… agitate things, situations, and if they could - entire worlds! Understand: these people know that nothing is simple; and so they hold to the very opposite of naivety, wisdom, or in some cases, suspicion; paranoia. They are humbled to the ambivalence to which they are witness, and they defy our simple, comforting assertions of clarity, of a black and white world."_

"_Bellatrix, when you wish to deliver the gravest insults to such a citizen. Call them naïve. You will leave them incensed, indeed, virtually speechless… until you watch their mind back-tracking, revealed by a cascade of expressions, as they ask themselves: who is that would call me naïve?" _

"_The answer, Bellatrix, is clearly a person who's confident, possessed of certainty, along with all the arrogance and pretension at superiority that such a position entails; which permits the offhanded judgment, the derisive dismissal uttered from a most lofty height. And from this, into your victim's eyes will come the light of recognition – in you, Bella, he would face his worst, truest enemy. And. He. Will. Know. Terror!"_

_The Dark Lord smirked. "Do I possess certainty? Or am I floundering in the wild currents of complexity?" _

_He remained silent for a moment, and then he said, "I hold to but one certainty." _

"_Power shapes the face of the world. In itself, it is neither benign nor malicious; it is simply the tool by which its wielder reshapes all that is around himself, or herself, to match his own ideal world, his or her own comforts."_

"_Of course, to express power is to enact tyranny, which can be subtle and soft, or hard and cruel. Implicit in power – political, familial, as you like – is the threat of coercion, against all who choose to resist, and know this: if coercion is available, it __**will **__be used."_

_He gestured to the screaming man. "Listen to that man. He does my work for me. Down in the dungeons, his cellmates will hear his ravings, and some among them join in chorus – the guards take note of who, and that is a list of names I peruse daily, for they are ones I can win over. The ones who say nothing, or turn away, now that is the list of those who __**must **__die." _

"_So," she said, "we let him continue screaming."_

"_Yes, Bella, we let him continue to scream."_

**-x-x-x-x-x-**

How oddly insightful, Bellatrix thought. Morbid curiosity – or is it curious morbidity? - had driven her to think of that particular conversation she'd had with _her Lord_.

"_All one needs to do is find what threatens them the most. Ignite that fear, burn to cinders the foundations of those certainties, then offer an equally certain and secure way of thinking, of seeing the world. They will reach across, no matter how wide the gulf, and grasp and hold onto you with all their strength." _

Her _Lord _had certainly found what threatened her the most - the fear of being abandoned; thrown away so much as waste by the one man she'd devoted her _life_, her _soul_ to. Most certainly, he had ignited that fear, and burnt to cinders the foundations – no, not of her certainties that the Dark Lord would never abandon her, never deem her useless, but her _loyalty_.

What the Dark Lord had burned and crushed in that split second when he'd considered leaving her behind to the mercies of the Ministry, was her _loyalty_, her _devotion_. Fifteen years of servitude had not softened the Dark Lord's harsh cruelty. Her work and efforts, her sins and crimes, committed in _his _name – had been found wanting. She could think of no greater deed that would garner her Lord's returned devotion. Nothing…

This time, there were no 'equally certain and secure way of thinking, of seeing the world', no 'gulf to reach across', nothing to grasp, nothing to put her faith in; not her husband, not the Dark Mark she'd so proudly worn on her forearm like a trophy, certainly not her _Dark Lord_.

Her train of thought was abruptly broken by the screeching of a dying owl, the smell of burnt feathers and woodwork as both Owl and the box it carried were vaporized upon entry from the tall cellar's window. And out of the mini-conflagration rolled a _golden _knut, white smoke wafting and coiling about the coin from the sudden heat, which dropped the remaining height, rolling and burning hot, as the magic inherent within withstood the ferocity of the wards.

_A Golden_ _knut…_

Understanding bloomed at the familiar magic that seeped out of the small coin just at the foot of her bed. She had to hurry. It would not last long.

Bellatrix flexed her fingers, and then with the last of her strength, summoned the golden knut up from the floor, clear of the slime and dross and into her mouth where she chewed viciously, her teeth grating on the metal even as the sharp burrs cut into her gums. Again, began the mechanical, vicious, tugging at the manacles that held her, this time: cackling with glee.

_Come Rabastan, dear brother of my husband, my rapist, my tormentor, I would greet you now, here, heartily!_

_COME!_

**0x0**

The corridor was narrow and deserted, thicker with dust than most others, barring where his boots had scraped an eager path. Rabastan strode quickly now, eyes filling with anticipation. As he approached his destination, his Lord's words echoed in his mind: _We begin the purge of this world shortly, get some rest. _

Rabastan smirked.

Rest?

There were far better ways to relax.

His feet carried him down a well worn path through the winding corridors, the sharp turns and sudden declines, to the door, where he drew a key and unlocked the latch, stepping inside.

"I knew you'd be lonely," he said.

The light emanating from his wand which had lit the way for him dimmed, and he went over to the table, where he sat it into an ornate holder.

"Thirsty? I'm sure you are."

He glanced over his shoulder, and saw her watching him, saw the desire in her eyes.

"There's more trouble in the Dark Lord's chambers, Bella. But I will protect you. I will always protect you. You are safe here, away from the Dark Lord who would kill you for your failures and see your flesh fed to the vampires, safe from my brother who would toss you to the Werewolves for your incompetence in begetting him an heir. You understand that, yes? You are forever safe here, with me. Yes? Yes."

She nodded, and he saw her spread her legs wider on the bed, then invite him with a thrust of her pelvis. And Rabastan Lestrange smiled.

He had his perfect woman.

"Pull the chain tighter on my ankles," Bellatrix said. "Force my legs wider."

"You enjoy being helpless, don't you?"

"Yes. Yes!"

Smiling, Rabastand knelt at the side of the bed. The chain beneath ran through holes in the bed frame at each corner. Pins held the lengths in place. To tighten the ones snaring her ankles, all he needed to do was pull a pin on each side at the foot of the bed, drawing the chain down as far as he could, and as he listened to her moans, replace the pins.

He would not use the Imperious. No. The blind servitude that the Unforgivable instilled in its victim would be meaningless on Bella, a woman who was fiery, passionate…_his_. It would be tasteless, and cold in its act of forced participation. He wanted her to see as he entered her, took from her. He wanted her to _know_ he was raping her, and that she would _love it_.

Pins in place, he rose, than saw down at the edge of the bed, staring down at Bellatrix, the wife to his brother. Naked, most of the bruises fading since Rabastan no longer liked hurting her. A beautiful body indeed, getting thinner with each day, a trait he preferred in his women. He reached out, and drew his hand away again. He didn't like any touching until he was ready. She moaned a second time, arching her back, baring him a view of her wondrous breasts.

Rabastan Lestrange undressed. Then he crawled up onto the bed, loomed over her with his knees between her legs, hands pressing down onto the thin mattress to either side of her chest. He saw how the manacles had torn at her wrists. He would need to treat that – those wounds were looking much worse. Slowly, Rabastan settled onto her body, felt her shiver beneath him as he slid smoothly inside her hot flesh. So easy, so welcoming, her body: she groaned, and, studying her faced, he asked, "Do you want me to kiss you now?"

"Yes!"

And he brought his head down as he made his first deep thrust.

**0x0**

Bellatrix, once eminent Death Eater, had found in herself a beast, prodded awake as if from a slumber of centuries, perhaps longer. It was a beast that understood captivity, that knew, sometimes, what needed doing entailed excruciating pain. Her wrists, hidden beneath the manacles mostly by scabs, sported blood and torn shreds of skin, the bones worn down, chipped, cracked – by constant savage tugging.

Animal rhythm, blind to all else, deaf to every scream of her nerves drove her, tugging, and tugging, until the pins beneath the frame began to bend. Ever so slowly, bending, the wood holes chewed into, the pins bending, gouging through the holes. And now with the extra length of chain that came when Rabastan had reset the pins at the foot of the bed frame, she had enough slack.

Enough slack to reach with her left hand and grasp a clutch of his hair, pushing his head to the right where she had, in a clattering blur brought most of the chain through the hole, enough to wrap round his neck and then twist her hand down and under and then over; and in a sudden, god-touched moment of clarity and determination, pulled her left arm up, higher and higher with that arm – the manacle and her right wrist pinned the to the frame, tugged down as far as it could go.

Rabastan thrashed, sought to dig his fingers under the chain, and she reached ever harder, her face brushing his own, her eyes seeing the sudden blue hue of his skin, his bulging eyes and jutting tongue. He could have beaten against her. He could have driven his thumbs into her eyes and into the soft tissue of her brain. He could probably have killed her in time to survive all of this.

But she had waited for his breath to release, which ever came at the moment he pushed in his first thrust. That breath that she had heard a hundred times now, close to her ear, as he made use of her body, _that _breath is what killed him.

He needed air.

He had none.

Nothing else mattered.

He tore at his own throat to get his fingers under the chain. She pushed her left arm straight, elbow locking, and loosed her own scream born of obsession. She stared at that blue bulging face, felt that flooding burst from his penis, and followed by the hot gush of urine pouring into her. Staring eyes, veins blossoming red, then purple until the whites were completely filled.

She looked right into them; looked into those staring eyes, seeking his soul, seeking to lock her gaze with that pathetic, vile, dying soul.

_I murder you. I murder you. I murder you!_

They were the beast's silent words.

They were the beast's gleeful, savage assertion. Her violet hued eyes shouted it as him, shouted it into his soul.

_Rabastan Lestrange. I kill you!_

**0x0**

Four bells passed before Bellatrix managed to push the corpse of Rabastan Lestrange to one side, and it lay now beside her as if cuddled in sleep, the bloated, blotched face next to her own. There would be no one coming for her. This room was unknown to all but Rabastan Lestrange, and unless some urgent matters required _her Lord _to demand his presence, and so seek him out, Bellatrix knew it would be too late for her.

Chained to the bed, legs spread wide, fluids leaking from between her thighs; Bellatrix stared up at the ceiling, strangely comforted by the body lying at her side. It's stillness, the coolness of the skin, the flaccid lack of resistance from the flesh. She could feel the shriveled thing that was his penis pressing against her right thigh. And the beast within her was pleased.

She needed water. She needed that above all else. A mouthful would be enough, and almost immediately, the beast within her awoke, and her limbs jumped back into action, tugging at the chains, dragging the links against the wood, dreaming of the frame splintering beneath her – but it would take a strong man to do that, she knew; strong and healthy. But what she had was enough. More than enough.

A bell's time was all she needed. Working her right hand free, Bellatrix spat the golden knut from her mouth, it's round edge chewed down to burrs, an impromptu blade that fell into the open palm of her hand. Smiling, Bellatrix set to work. First the chains, then the wand Rabastan had so foolishly left at the table, and then…

_Gringotts. _

A mouthful of water would have been bliss.

She could spit it in the corpse's face.

**0x0**

From the moment Rufus Scrimgeour had risen up to the Head of Auror Office, Nymphadora Tonks had hated him. Her reasons were sketchy at best, but she'd quickly learned in her profession to never doubt her instinct. The now Minister for Magic was an average height man with an average rangy build, and a not-so-pleasant face. At eighteen years old and barely a year into her career at the Auror Office, she'd been very afraid of him.

Now at twenty-three, he merely repulsed her. At nine in the morning, fatigue pulled at her while her brain felt foggy. She needed a pepper-me-up in a bad way. Not a good start. Plastering a deliberate look of disinterest, Tonks sauntered into the familiar office of the Minister and took a seat where Fudge's favorite chair used to be.

"Excuse me, sir. I may have heard wrongly. What was it you wanted from me again?"

Seated behind a heavy mahogany oaken table with his feet resting against a footrest sipping at a cup of Ogden's Finest, Rufus Scrimgeour smiled that same smile that had always made her skin crawl.

"You did not hear me wrongly. You _owe _me, and you _know _it."

Fingers twitching for her wand, Tonks gritted her teeth and instead addressed him, "How so, Minister?"

A harsh bark that Scrimgeour tried to pass off as a laugh made her stomach lurch. Tonks stared at the man who had served as her direct superior from the first time she'd set foot into the corps after Mad-Eye himself. Now, he served nothing at all. She had no allegiances to him beyond that of protecting him from attempts on his life – should she be in the vicinity that is.

As a survivor in a male-dominated profession, she'd overcome obstacles and conquered nearly all her fears. With very few exceptions, she could face anyone and anything without flinching. Yet, old memories, and the pain of regrets that encompassed her early start in the career always hit her like a bludgeoning curse to the stomach.

Time hadn't softened them.

Nothing ever would.

The hush of clothing against couch cushions and the click of his polished boots announced Scrimgeour's approach. She didn't have to look to know the Minister was smiling, that his yellow eyes glittered with satisfaction. He was right. She owed him.

"If it wasn't for me," he whispered from her right side, "you wouldn't have been able to save them."

"Shut up."

"If it wasn't for me," he continued, "your parents would have long died on their little vacation."

"It was your _duty_."

"Not really. It was Amelia's. But oh, troubled as she was by Fudge's political games, she could hardly spare the time to tell you, _little girl_, that your parents were marked for _death_, now could she?"

He was wrong. She _had _tried. Except that if Scrimgeour's warning had not come at the time that it did, the missive would have been too late, and she would have lost her parents, her family.

Still…

Tonks smirked. She owed him no Life Debts. It _was _part of his duty. He'd been one of the Aurors notified of the uncovered plans.

"Little girl? I'm just a few inches shorter than you are, _Minister_."

She slanted her gaze up at him, bringing just a speck of her metamorphagus's powers to the fore to add that brilliantly, dangerous look into her eyes. It didn't take much effort. Her repressed anger at the man's blatant sexism was already boiling hot.

He appeared taken aback but for a moment before he gathered himself. "And yet," he said, his voice frighteningly gentle as he moved to the back of her chair, "you're still so much smaller."

With every fiber of her being, Tonks felt Scrimgeour standing there behind her. Her skin prickled and the hair on her nape lifted as if touched by static. In-born instincts screamed at her to maneuver around, to face the threat head on, but Tonks held herself in check.

An Order port-key, made by Dumbledore himself would transport her the moment she even _thought _the word. If Scrimgeour made any rash movements, she'd come back and wreak hell-on-earth upon his domain, Minister or not.

"So, because you think I owe you, and for that, you want me to…what, talk to Harry Potter?"

The Minister scowled, the action transformed his visage into something akin to a disfigured lion. A disfigured lion with grey manes; how interesting. "After all the ministry has done, he might not want to see me. But you…you could get in on his good side, convince him to have a meeting with me."

Tonks watched him closely. "I can't do that, not with Auror Duty-"

"I'll see to it that you're reposted immediately. Having an Auror to guard the community's hero is of course, just one of the Ministry's many new changes to come."

Tonks could have grinned. He'd walked right into that.

"You mean _your _changes."

"I'm the Minister for Magic. Surely, I'm meant to do more than govern in this time of war? Be a good girl, and bring Harry Potter to our way of thinking quickly. Or I might just have to use drastic measures. Measures neither he, nor Albus Dumbledore would like."

She scowled. Things were getting out of hand.

"And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"

"You're a woman now, _Nymphadora_."

At twenty-three, she agreed, but that wasn't his point at all.

"So?"

"All women know how to sway men. Not that the brat would even fit the criteria, though I imagine you know better than most how to do-"

Cutting off that tired insult, Tonks asked, "Why do you want to see him?"

"It's a personal matter, Nymphadora."

That dismissive tone wasn't fooling her one bit. Amelia may have seen fit to let an old friend slip by without finding out his true intentions with regards to the state of things, but not her. Not when her soon-to-be official charge would be the one she'd have to shanghai into meeting this bigot of a wizard.

"What? You're sending me on a liaison/guard basis and you won't tell me exactly _what _you want him to meet you for? And he's supposed to buy that? Just like that? No questions asked, no suspicions?"

Tonks snorted. Voldemort would be kissing babies and hugging pregnant muggle mothers before Harry James Potter trusted the current Ministry – and, it seemed - with good reason.

"Fine, but I'll do it with one condition."

Scrimgeour's face screwed up into a scowl. "You're giving me conditions?"

"Yeah. Quit calling me Nymphadora. And the next time you insinuate I slept my way up to the Senior Auror Forces, I'll kick your ass. Got it? Good."

And with that Parthian shot, she walked away, leaving a fuming Minister for Magic behind.

Things were looking up. Now all she needed was a pepper-up potion. Or maybe some of that infamous coffee that Shacklebolt seemed to love…

**0x0**

Violence had never been part of his more docile, laidback, quasi-defensive nature.

Until now, that is. For brief moments, Harry considered the knife that Sirius had given him. The seven inch blade had melted down into a mottled rod of sorts, retaining but a single sharp point – its original spear point. Right now, Harry considered ramming that point home onto the dresser top, just for the sake of it. He had a good feeling that it'd help relieve some pent up stress, particularly since it was the type of stress pulling at his pecker wouldn't resolve.

He turned the blade in his hand, blade point out, blade point in. It was a habit of sorts. As a treasured memorabilia of Sirius, he wasn't about to toss it away. When the chance came, he'd take it to a shop and have it fixed. He was reasonably sure one of the shops along Diagon Alley could service it.

For now, he put off ideas of gallivanting about the open alley away. He had more important things to worry about.

His shoulder-length hair slick with perspiration stuck to his neck, clung to his nape. The dying afternoon sun beat a relentless wave of heat into his room, and without a fan or even the barest forms of rudimentary ventilation, the room became a man-made oven.

Worst, the room stank.

The stench of stale teenager hung thick like pollen in the room. The open window helped, but it was still a noticeable difference. It was as if he'd been doused from head to toe in dross and dragged across the room's small confines, the floor, the ceiling, the wall, and left behind an olfactory ghost of himself.

Trapped within this prison – for that was what it had effectively turned into – Harry reflected on the mud-like feeling of hatred and anger welling up inside of him like a fountain of lava.

Hours of practice at Occlumency, at delving into his own mind and attempting to understand why he reacted the way he did, said the things he said, moved the way he moved, had never so much as yielded a thought that was as fundamental at its core as the one that bounced inside of his skill now.

The relentless dig of indignation, of shame and regret and pain and _hurt _all rolled up into a gigantic blur of vibrant colors painted a gaudy, misshapen, portrait of _fear_ in Harry's life. Knotting his one free hand in the bedding, he slid sideways against the wall before laying down on the lumpy mattress, staring at the ceiling as he contemplated further on his psyche.

He decided it was fear; fear of the unknown, of confronting Voldemort, of losing another loved one, Ron, Hermione, Remus, Tonks, of hearing another friend's misfortune, being at the wrong place and at the wrong time, just like Cedric had been.

It was an irrational fear that gnawed at his mind and pushed him to breaking point: an unreasonable, traumatic force that bore no burden, carried no weight, and traipsed around in his delicate mind with all the finesse of a raging rhinoceros. And until Harry figured out what to do about this _irrational_ fear, worked out how to deal with it, he'd forever be stuck _with_ it.

Not that many in his world would dismiss it as irrational. Having the most powerful Dark Lord of the century after your head and fearing could _hardly _qualify as irrational. In fact, it was so understandable, that even people _not _targeted by the Dark Lord quivered and shook in their clunky boots at the wanker's name.

Unless you happened to be Harry-beat that son of a bitch five times in a row – Potter.

Of course, the relative word was 'beat'.

The first time as a baby had been a fluke. The second time in his first year had been luck. The third time in the Chambers of Secrets had been Fawkes. He'd run from the snake-faced bastard in the fourth time at the graveyard. And he'd barely survived the fifth time in the Department of Mysteries.

Still, the fear existed. It existed despite his attempt at justifying it.

And because of that, he delved deeper, tried to sort out each individual motion that curried the murky waters of his mind, and only after hours of tossing and turning and the afternoon sun had yielded the sky to the moon, did he come to the answer he was seeking: an answer for the madness within.

It was hate; hate, not merely for having fled like a coward, but hate directed at himself, hatred for dismissing his own weaknesses that had inadvertently led to Sirius's death. They were weaknesses that in all his teenage angst, petulance, and acrimony, had been tossed to the side for his ego, his pride, accounted for by his endless justifications.

It hurt; hurt to know that he'd been foolish, immature, and rash. It hurt to know that had he paid heed to Hermione's words and tried to contact Sirius first, nothing like this would ever have happened. The wound ached as if it were real, wisps of thoughts gripping about his trachea and squeezing tight.

Ultimately, he reflected, it was the pain of _not being in control_.

That, Harry decided, had to change.

With that thought in mind, Harry gripped the gold coin that he'd been fingering in his other hand, and whispered, "_Portus_."

'_Turn me loose, Sirius. Turn me loose.'_

**0x0**

A/N:

So…how was it? Let me know about your thoughts and stuff, because this project would be going hand in hand with Jon's other challenge Seven Queens of Darkness, Seven Ladies of Light, it's going to be updated sporadically along with TBOAD. So let me know how it goes. Opinions are greatly appreciated.


	2. Chapter One: Decisions

A/N: I suppose I should tell you all that I'm truly sorry for the delay...but I can't. I failed two modules, had to repeat, and my relationship is on the rocks over my increasing attention to the laptop. My girlfriend was right...abit of sun and exercise, abit of life really does change your perspective. I still love writing, but I WILL limit myself to time frames. It will affect my writing, have no doubts about it.

Next up, this story is NOT abandoned. I will note however that TBOAD is on a long term hiatus. I just lost the motivation for it. I've been reading Jim Butcher's LIveJournal lately, and I realized that the lack of planning actually affects 80 PERCENT of writers out there, who end up either

Putting their fics on hiatus...or

Giving up their stories.

Which was essentially what happened with TBOAD. I just went in, head on, all bluster no plans and screwed up everything. I'm stuck between planning and re-writing. Not to mention that fucking drama queen Swim calling down a bunch of fan-boys insisting I plagiarized him on a FANFICTION website.

Fuck, seriously?

Moving on.

I want all budding writers to know these – plan, plan, plan. Check for loopholes every 3 chapters. Check for mistakes every paragraph, and then spam f7 to find spelling mistakes. I get so damn irritated when I see generally enjoyable fics(not grammatically or whatever the hell you'd call it sound, but plot-wise, enjoyable) like the Harry Potter and the Veela Bond by DrgnMstr.

The general idea is fine. Hell, the plot moves along ok. (Albeit with a few giant clichés in your face...but everything is made well by erotica..even if its sub-par.) But the writing...just KILLS everything.

The word Prophet is spelled 'profit' apparently.

Wtf? PROOF-CHECK DAMNIT!

Finally, most important of all, I wish to thank the reviewers, the alert adders, the story favourite trackers, the encouragement people have sent via pm(s) and emails.

Credits to Sythe for his amazing story, Tis Femina, and any and all influences that it has in my story. And last but not least, Lori Foster, Steven Erikson, and many others will always have my gratitude.

* * *

**About Timeframes:**

**I'm not entirely too sure about the dates and times of what happened at what time and date in HBP, but while I'm at it, this story will be entirely non-HBP compliant with the changing and recasting of events, times, places, and happenings. **

**Please bear in mind all given dates are done on purpose. **

**Mind the rating**.

* * *

Chapter 1 – Rolling the dice

* * *

**5****th ****July, 1996**

* * *

Diagon Alley, at a quarter past twelve was not unlike a ghost town. Bereft of its usual lights and displays of magic, torn from its envisioned safety previously enforced by the now largely ineffective Ministry, the shopping district – once popular – felt as if it was devoid of life and magic. It was as if she was walking through the aftermath of an apocalypse, through the skeleton remains of a town that had been left to rot for _millennia. _

Yet, here and there, everywhere she turned her eyes on, small signs of magic and evidence of life stared back in defiance; a shop sign that spun without so much as a gentle breeze, forgotten mugs of ale and Firewhisky on the lids of barrels, and the soft imprints of boots on what soft dirt there was to be found between the cracked, cobbled floor under her feet.

Yes, Magical Britain was still very much alive.

_**Alive.**_

The word jarred for a moment, and she took the chance to consolidate her thoughts. There was joy - a rare occurrence - its presence leaping around her insides like an overexcited child high on sugar. There was also _life_. And that was good. Life meant hope, and with the Dark Lord's reign of terror just begun anew – hope, was fast becoming a rare commodity.

Pulling her hood down further, Narcissa reached into the seams of her robes and fingered the warm length of her wand, relishing the gentle thrill of its reply, then further down, the hilt of the first of her rune-engraved throwing knives. There was no need to tempt fate. The night was never truly safe. Its shadows hid the denizens of darkness: thieves, murderers, rapists.

The world of the purebloods, for all of its vaunted values, remained as dangerous and as street-safe as the early 1800's of Muggle Britain. Steeling herself, Narcissa made her way down the alley and towards the monolithic, ivory white gate that marked Gringotts entrance.

She had tasks at hand.

They could not be delayed.

* * *

**10****th**** July, 1978

* * *

**

Violet eyes flared open, and her mouth opened in a silent, gasping start.

_Silence_; because she'd long learned to void all sounds with her magic, and then to push all her fears into the deep dark chasms that spanned across her mind like spider-cracks. No fear, no sound. There was only anger, and a raw burning hatred that gripped her by the very souls and rattled her till she shook with the urge to do _something_.

Yet…

The night was as black, cold and empty as ever. What had awakened her?

Curtains of snow fell like so much like ash outside of her bedroom window, and fingers of frost seeped in around the warped frame, but it wasn't the deep dark of the night that made her skin crawl with uneasiness and her hands clammy. It wasn't the weather that left chills and goose bumps rising along her arms.

Put the dumbest animal into a field of slaughtered kin, then watch its mind tear itself apart and reconstruct itself into a survivor. Out of necessity, Bellatrix had learned to read the future of things. Clues were dropped all the time…body language, moods, unvoiced motivations…even the dumbest animal would adapt to survive.

Heart beating a staccato impact against her ribs, she strained to listen.

Nothing; there was hardly anything to disturb the night beyond the furious pounding of blood in her ears. Keen eyes surveyed only shifting darkness, molded and moved by the shadows cast off her bedside lamp.

She dismissed her abrupt return to consciousness, ready to turn in for the-

_Thump._

She froze.

_Thump. _

A footstep.

The floorboards groaned.

And just that easily, the carefully placed shield holding back the fear deep within her mind fractured, shattering outwards. The roar of a thousand nightmares flooding into her mind assaulted her fractured nerves like spell fire, twisting her stomach into painful knots. Her father was coming to her bedroom. A sob crawled up her throat, but she ruthlessly gulped it back down.

She'd known it would happen, and she'd already decided to do something about it. She had to take control of her life. She was eighteen now, a grown woman. And that presented both a problem and a solution. Her body drew unsolicited attention, and her looks sent teenagers into lust. She was blessed with generous endowments as were her sisters. Yet, unlike them, she had no one to shield her, no one to protect her from someone who held a firm position of power over her.

As if in slow motion, she turned her head to watch the doorknob turn, tightening her panic and calming it at the same time. She'd reached her resolution. There would be no victims this night. Her wand had long been confiscated early in the night. And without it, she was left with nothing but the oil lamp at her bed side table.

It wasn't much compared to a full-grown man's strength, and the power of a wizard's wand over a melee weapon…yet surprise had always held a distinct advantage. Resolve weighed heavily in her chest, forming an agonizing lump. She'd planned for this many times. The oil lamp would but have to connect…and he'd be inundated long enough for her to run…

With a bang, the door was thrown open, a jet read beam of light blasting through and wrenching the lamp out of her grasp. There was a harsh bark of laughter, and then he was on her, oily hands sliding under her night clothes and tearing them apart in his haste. His breath, rancid, and stinking of alcohol came in hot, short pants as he struggled atop of her.

"Stop struggling, you little whore!"

He punctuated the insult with a harsh backhand that left her stunned, drained. Starbursts did their best to black her out as pain scorched through her body. She could feel herself starting to lose consciousness, but she wouldn't let that happen – _couldn't _let that happen.

_Find the deepest, darkest hole you can find in your mind sister, and crawl into it. And pray, hope, that he doesn't drag you out by the hair…_

_Never!_

He was cackling now, short little rasps of laughter that bellied forth as he undressed her and himself. She bid her time, waiting. The feel of his rough hands scraping against her skin made disgust well up deep inside of her, but she couldn't give away her hand yet.

Not. Just. Yet.

For a minute or so, Bellatrix lay on her side, taking short, sharp breaths, pretending to be the damaged slip of a girl who could barely defend herself…_yet you are, sweet daughter of mine, and I __**will **__have a taste of you before I whore you out! _

Her eyes snapped wide open, and into the rheumy gray of her Black senior's as his thoughts flooded her mind.

_Fuck. _

_You.

* * *

_

Shock shot through his features, and then a terrible rage as he dragged her up by the hair and threw her into the window, slamming her head against the glass panels, once, twice, three times before he shoved her onto the bed and bent over her. Her skin was soft, supple, and _so alike_ her dear mother's that he could feel himself harden at the thought of entering her.

Sweat beaded on his upper lip, slid down the middle of his back, and his breath came fast and low. With one hand, he held back the thread bare material of her negligee, and with the other, he stroked himself against her sex between her legs, luxuriating in the soft feel of her flesh.

Merlin, Morgana, and Maeve, she was sexier than ever, a woman made to be fucked hard and long. _By him. _Her breasts were big and round, more than twice a handful as he cupped one in his palm, feeling the soft weight of her. Her legs were long, so long they'd be able to wrap around him and squeeze him tight.

This was _heaven_.

Ha!

This was fucking _fantastic._

The potion he'd taken earlier had long kicked into his system, and he relished the buzzing high in his head that seemed to make him invincible. But he was no fool. His daughter inherited his own cunning, and her mother's sharp mind.

He wasn't one to taunt, but this time, he couldn't resist. Not when the little bitch had dared to defy him. He stared hard at her face and concentrated, taking in the pout of her perfect ruby red lips, those slanted eyes and the sharp jaw that defined her as the most sought after bride-to-be.

She was not to be wed yet. But soon…she would be. _Not _however, before he could have her.

And her thoughts wereoh so open…

'_Yet you are, sweet daughter of mine, and I __**will **__have a taste of you before I whore you out!'_

Her answer was not altogether expected.

* * *

_Fuck. _

_You. _

And then she jerked her carefully positioned knee hard against his open groin, her hands wrapping around his thick neck to pull his face down as she slammed her forehead into his nose. He coughed, spluttered, and gasped as the acute pain took hold then slumped to the side, cradling his injury with one hand and reaching for his wand with the other.

She didn't spare him a glance. Eyes fixed on the small oil-lamp, her body pivoted as her legs started to move towards it. Muffled swear words came from behind her. But that didn't matter, the lamp did. If he was fast enough….she'd soon know.

Her palm slapped down onto the lamp as if swatting a fly, and then she was spinning on her heels, gathering momentum as that terrible rage brought her off the floor with a surge of incredible power. Pushing up, he lurched back and banged into the bed's headboard. His face didn't register fear, or surprise as she closed in, just anger as he raised his wand, an incantation on his lips.

Her eyes remained fixed on his face as she swung the heavy lamp downward, making contact above his cheekbone. His skin folded over just below his eye, then split open just before he toppled off her bed with a scream, corpulent body scraping against her bare legs on the way down. Satisfaction roared through her. For once, Bellatrix didn't feel helpless. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, giving her awesome strength.

_She _was in charge.

_She _was almighty.

Bellatrix eyed the hunched figure of her father scrambling on the floor, groaning and swearing – and _screamed_. Not even bothering to position herself properly, she lashed out wildly; once, twice, three times. The lamp struck against his skull for the first two strikes, both with such force that that her arm jarred to a halt as she made contact, on the third strike, the lamp struck his face and shattered, sending razor sharp glass shards into his flesh and around the room.

For once, Bellatrix savored the raw shriek of stunned pain that gurgled from deep in his throat. He held up his hands, face turned half away from her as if to protect it. Using the base of the now broken lamp, she landed a solid blow against his temple. His hands batted at her, but she ignored it, unable to stop herself as she struck him again, then once more before his hands fell and he fell back, hands falling limply to the side.

Panting, crying silently, she stood just out of his reach, gulping air. Her negligee was twisted around her body, her curly hair long and tangled, half hanging in her eyes. The now broken lamp was held aloft with both fists, ready. Bellatrix waited for his curses, his fists, for anything…but the man never stirred.

Her throat burned, and the repulsive aftertaste of stomach acid burned in her mouth.

_Oh, Merlin. _

Her legs shook, and her lungs hurt. The lamp dropped from shaky hands as she went pressed her father's wand against the notch by the doors. There was a light whine, but the lamps lit nonetheless, allowing her to survey the damage. Stripped clean of emotion, she took in his mangled, unrecognizable face. There was too much blood, too much swelling and bruising to properly make out his features.

Had she killed him?

Strangely, there was no remorse as she examined the body - only a profound sense of loneliness. Knuckling aside the tears, she forced herself to think. She knew nothing of first aid and it didn't take a genius to see he was no longer breathing. There was so much blood – on him, on the floor, on her. Using the bare toes of her left foot, Bellatrix nudged him.

He didn't budge.

There was no response from him. Not a sound nor movement to indicate life.

_She'd killed him_.

Pity became an acrid taste in her mouth – pity for herself, for what she'd been forced to become; a _murderer. _It worked its way up her throat until she sobbed, but she immediately stuck her fist against her quivering mouth to silence herself. She could hear her mother in the kitchen, pouring another drink, singing to herself in her drunken slut, as oblivious and as uncaring of her daughters' welfare as ever.

Merline, but she hated her.

At least, that was what Bellatrix tried to tell herself as her heart shattered into tiny little pieces. It hurt _so bad…_

In her mind, Bellatrix Black was _dead_, dead and buried. After tonight the pain would go away.

She'd _make it go away. _She drew a deep breath to calm herself. Pushing aside the revulsion, she dropped to her knees and dug in _his _pockets until she located his pouch. It was swollen and heavy with the winnings from the weekly betting rounds. It appeared Black Sr. had won much tonight. It was hers now.

Thanks to her recent coming-of-age, there were no restrictions, and no Familial laws to keep her in check. In a matter of minutes, she was dressed and ready to go. She had her clothes, enough coin to last her for months, and the family tomes. Nothing else was needed.

She liberated her wand with a quick summon and then snapped _his _into before tossing them into the grate. As she climbed out her bedroom window into the damp cold spring night, she glanced back at the fallen form of her father. He was dead, and good riddance. As far as she was concerned, Bellatrix Black had died with him. The scared young woman was gone, and a new, free woman had emerged. A better life awaited her.

It might not be great, but in no way could it be worse.

* * *

**5****th**** July, 1996

* * *

**As the vivid dream faded, Bellatrix stretched awake on the narrow, lumpy mattress.

_She had been wrong. _

It had been worse…and yet, it was all so far in the past now…

Or was it?

She could still remember the trashing, frenzied limbs of a dying man; the faint aroma of feces from where she'd been imprisoned down in the dungeons, feel the warm piss of a man who'd been choked to death by the very irons he'd slapped on his _whore…_

Shaking her head and brushing aside her morbid thoughts, Bellatrix rose from her bed and padded over to the window, shoving it all the way open, delighting in the soft vapors of rain that caressed her body, washing away the scent of stale sex. Summer rain - a rare occurrence - pattered against the window, and for a brief moment, a sense of déjà vu settled over her.

With bated breath, she waited. It was as if the world, the rain, the raw smell of sex, saliva and semen that lingered in the room had just been obscured and a giant blindfold pulled over her senses….yet there was no sense of danger, no threat, and her heart swelled with relief, with honest happiness.

Her cousin's Portkey had been timely, and his conditions; acceptable, considering the vast gulf that now separated her from the Dark Lord.

As of last night, she'd turned her last trick, and knowing that sent a bounty of energy rippling through her. Perched on the window sill, she flipped her head forward and gathered her impossibly long hair in her hands. With the cloth-covered band from her nightstand, she secured the unruly mass into a high ponytail then left the window to take a proper shower.

Lingering under the spray of hot water and steam, Bellatrix washed away every trace of the man who'd paid for her body, and at the same time, she washed away the past. She would not rue the things she'd done, because she'd _survived_. Besides…with Sirius's proposal…the past month wouldn't matter either way.

Wrapped in a terry cloth robe, she left the bath-room and made coffee, a Muggle drink she'd come to enjoy. Her home for the past month was an efficiency apartment with a miniscule bathroom, a double bed, and a hotplate for cooking. It was small, and she had barely enough room to turn, but it was cozy – and most importantly, under the _Fidelius_ charm.

The flat was Spartan in the way of furnishings. Bellatrix saw no need for the normally requisite couches and chairs. Instead, bookshelves lined the walls from top to bottom and column to column. They'd saved her, and they were like her trusted friends. When she needed comfort, she revisited them. When she'd been idle, the books had alleviated the boredom. When she'd been alone, the books provided a world she could lose herself in.

With a grin and a swish of her wand, the books piled into her trunk along with her other belongings before she set about getting ready.

_The Pearl _provided secrecy, security, and privacy. That said, it would have been but a fool's choice to meet elsewhere. Elsewhere; where husbands searched, hunters tailed, and the unholy wrath of a slighted dark lord loomed ever present.

Sat across her sister, Narcissa merely observed the startling changes wrought by a near month of healthy living, breathing…freedom.

To conceal the natural pale pallor of her cheeks, Bella had smothered them beneath a layer ivory face powder. Her lips were painted rouge scarlet, and the dark graceful arches of her brows were that much striking against it. Her hair was sleeked up and away from her face with a pair of mother-of-pearl combs, then to allow the glossy ringlets to tumble freely down her back.

The style revealed a hint of a widow's peak and sculpted cheekbones that were normally hidden by a soft fringe of curls, making her look both older and more worldly –yet no less beautiful. The startling whiteness of her face and powdered bosom only made the glossy black satin of her gown seemd more decadent. It's artfully ruched bodice was cut deep and off the shoulder, imbuing her neck with a swanlike grace accentuated by her black velvet choker.

A fevered excitement glittered in her eyes. Narcissa smiled.

"How are you, sister?"

Narcissa Malfoy – or Black, now that she came to think of it – sat at one end of the table, and she at the other. Ten years in absence of communications, yet, her sister was as simple to read as she was when they'd both been but mere children.

_It's good to see you, sister. _

Tonight, the child had grown into a woman. And a beautiful woman indeed.

For this night, she wore emerald green silks, the short coat tight-fitting, collarless to expose her unadorned, powdered throat and low-cut to reveal her scented breasts. Her hair was tied up, speared through with silver pins. Rouge blushed her cheeks. Kohl thickened her lashes. Earrings depended from her ears in a tumbling, glittering array, emerald green and sapphire blue. The coat's short sleeves revealed her bare arms, the skin smooth, toned, unstained by the stun.

Leggings of brushed kid leather covered her lower limbs and on her feet were the latest styles of sandals, the ones with a high, peg-like heel. Amber wine glimmered in crystal goblets. Candlelight painted soft and gold every detail in a pool that faded beyond the gloom between the two at the table. The servants moved in shadows, appearing only to clear dishes, rearrange settings, and deliver yet more food.

Naricissa spoke first.

"How are you, sister?"

Bright smiles lit on the faces of both women, before the long lost sisters reunited, and awaited the arrival of The-Boy-Who-Lived.

* * *

**1****st**** July, 1996, 4 days before activation of Portkeys by Narcissa and Bellatrix.

* * *

**

Midnight poured shadows into the cramped room. The dull monotony of the restless night and the heavy taint of rancid malevolence, hung thick in the air. It'd been this way ever since Voldemort had assumed human form. The nights seemed to stretch on forever and the threat of death and sudden violence seemed to perpetuate everything the shadows touched.

With the large caliber pistol he'd liberated from his uncle's hunting gun cabinet resting against the flat of his palm and his finger curved around the trigger, Harry lay unmoving, turning the small golden knut over and over again in his hand.

_Nothing_.

Harry frowned before turning over the portkey in his hands. The coin was in perfect condition. There were no marks or burrs, nor were there any scratches to even imply the slightest damage been done to the transportation device. Goblin made Portkeys were notoriously hardy…yet it didn't work.

Had the letter been a hoax?

_No…not possible…_

He knew his Godfather's writing. He could smell the distinctive scent of ink. Yet, niggling suspicions continued to gnaw at his mind as he bounced questions back and forth. A new sense of unease rippled through him as he turned the golden knut over in his hand, and leaned back against the wall, contemplative.

Was it the wards? Or had he overestimated the capability of Goblin magic? Despite the lack of owls this summer, Gringott's package had still been delivered, their customer's last wishes served.

He didn't know, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

His control over Occlumency was rudimentary, but practice had reduced the load and stress that the Mind Arts had induced over time. Pushing the questions into a corner of his, he covered them with a metaphorical dust jacket, and moved on.

Everyone had a sixth sense. Even if someone was asleep, a person's subconscious would likely detect the change in air pressure and ambient noise when a closed door is opened and make something of it in a dream, giving him a sort of feeling that something was wrong.

The niggling suspicions grew with every passing second and the steady thrum of his own heartbeat.

Harry knew it better than most: he had awoken more times to the simple click of his Uncle's door opening in the dead of the night than he remembered, curling up into a ball terrified of another beating…

The room was silent, and a buzzing ring keened in his ear for every second that he laid still.

_There has to be a reason…think, Harry, think!_

Suspicions aroused, he traced the arrival of the mail backwards – and arrived at the answer.

Just because the letter had come didn't mean an owl had delivered it…and then an image of his uncle raving and ranting, spittle flying all over the place over a letter filled to the brim with stamps swam to his mind's eye…

The letter had come from a mailman. It had to be.

_Mail-man. _

He slapped his forehead with his open palm, than quickly dressed. He was tired, hungry, and smelled from a day's worth of manual labor, but he'd long learned to ignore it with practiced ease.

Personal discomfort melted away at the presence of more important matters. A pair of well-worn jeans and a faded grey sweat-shirt made up his ensemble. He might have been feeling particularly sticky, but the new clothes weren't bogged down with perspiration, soil, and a day's worth of stale teenager.

His wand, his pouch, Sirius's old knife, and a new switch-blade he'd so graciously procuredfrom Dudley's old room went with him. All of his scholl paraphernalia was tucked into Hagrid's Bottomless Mokes-skin Pouch. The gun into the waistband of his jeans and the spare magazines into his back pockets, he stood, than padded over to the window. He would leave here tonight.

The house was most likely warded, which would explain why the Portkey hadn't worked. Anti-Portkey/Apparition wards were the standard measures of protections the old man would've placed.

Order members most likely would be keyed into the wards to start off with…that would be potentially troublesome.

It meant he most likely had to deal with at least a single Order member on the outskirts of his wards. Quietly, Harry parted the curtains to look out into the street and the garden of his Uncle's house. There were no visible imprints of leather boots on grass, nor the faint tingling of his senses when someone stood within proximity.

Yet…he felt a pair of eyes trailing his every move. It irritated him. It frustrated him. Worse yet, it made him want to jam the new switch-blade he'd managed to get his hands on into whoever owned that pair of eyeballs. He could feel their eyes, drinking in every motion, _licking _at him the way tongues worked at ice-cream with single-minded tenacity.

The mere thought of Dumbledore, a Headmaster of a _school_, locking him down, tracking his every move with a whole roster of 'Yes' men and women backing his every move as if the man wrote the modern bible made him sick…

It didn't matter now.

What _mattered_ was getting to Sirius's will reading.

What _mattered_ was honoring the last wishes of a man who wanted to give a second chance at life to his dearest cousins: even if one of them had an undeniable hand in his death.

And then for the first time, Harry smiled.

_Second chances, eh? The old man would be right pleased…pity it isn't good ol'Snivellus. _

The second floor window of his uncle's house was flimsy; flimsy enough, one might say, for him to run full tilt towards it and ram it open with his shoulders, landing on the well-maintained lawn below shoulders first, than rolling to his feet. A sharp flare of pain let him know – as he'd suspected – that his landing had been none too gentle. Timberlands – a gift from Hermione – were the only things that protected skin from razor sharp glass shards.

There was no turning back.

Back in the house, the lights in his uncle's bedroom was coming on, and he could hear the faint shouts and echos of his uncle's insults as they rode the open breeze.

_Pointless_, he told himself, quenching the urge to head back inside the house and pump two bullets into the head of every single one of them shit-stains that'd made his childhood a living hell, but he cut himself off, forcing himself to focus on the job at hand.

Just as he'd reached the rough estimates of where the wards ended – he estimated sixteen symmetrical houses away _should _do it, and if not, he'd hail a fucking cab – and activated the portkey, everything went wrong.

There was the sharp report of a stunner slashing past his ear, trailing red showers of sparks and smoke as the familiar sensation of a hook behind his navel settled then lifted-

-and he was suddenly back on the ground again, golden knut flailing away in the air, the faint echoes of metal on metal ringing clear across the night. Pain flared across his shins and knees as he landed, and Harry caught a second streak of white light trailing away into the gloom.

_Patronus._

Growling, Harry lifted off with his hands and knees before launching himself into the dead ground sandwiched between two opposing alley walls. Anger served as the driving force behind his vicious retaliation.

Blood pounded hot and fast in his ears. His vision narrowed. The world slowed. Three steps, six and then his shoulder made contact with the diaphragm of his assailant, knocking the breath out of him as they both scrambled heartbeats upon hitting the ground. Harry didn't let up. He brought his head back, glasses long gone, and grasped the man by the neck with both hands, jerking his face hard towards the top of his crown. Contact.

It hurt. It made him dizzy. But the order member he'd so unceremoniously head-butted was in more of a shit-state than him.

Jet black robes and greasy hair filled his vision as Harry zeroed in and shoved the man backwards, using his shoulders to ram and push. At the same time, his left hand pulled back his shirt while he jammed his right hand down onto the pistol, released the safety catch and brought it up to bear. It was Snape, both hands covering his nose, blood running through his fingers.

_Snape_.

Harry barked a laugh.

Snape's lips curled.

"_Going _somewhere, Potter?"

Harry cocked his head.

Fuck him. He was the one in control. It didn't matter how fast or how effectively Snape could cast a spell. Harry's trigger finger was a lot faster.

"Back off, Snape. Just back off."

The Potions master sneered instead, taking another step forward.

"Or what, you impudent little brat? What would you do with that muggle toy? Give me a good hard hit across the head? Put down your little play-thing and go back into the house. More Order members are on their way here. You have no idea of the severity of your actions tonight-"

He cut off Snape's diatribe with a slash of his hand.

He needed the Portkey. He needed to get away before the Order members arrived. He needed control. And if Snape kept mouthing off…his grip on the trigger might just tighten that tad bit more…

"On your knees, Snape."

Surprise flickered across the man's sallow face. Good.

"On your knees. You heard me! Get down!" He punctuated that command with a kick to the man's legs. _Merlin,_ it felt good. He'd given over control too long. He'd been content to sit back and watch; content to let the world run roughshod over his life while he'd coasted by like a sack of shit.

And now he'd lost the one remaining link to his parents.

"Turn around, on your knees, back straight and summon my portkey. Do it now."

The man's lips curled into a wry grin of defiance.

"And if I do not?"

He'd never fired a gun before. Not with the intent to kill. Not before tonight. Yet, the overwhelming surge of fear, anger and guilt at the hands of this man before him had never made it seem easier to just put a bullet between his eyes. His breathing labored. His eyes grew sharp, cold, emotionless.

And then he pulled the trigger.

* * *

It's shorter than I'd like. But it's better than letting my readers think I've abandoned it. The next update will come as soon as it's done. (ard 3 weeks…?)

You might notice that I'm stretching out the stories. That's because I feel there are plenty of potential situations and changes a different, changed Harry would make to his situation. Reviews, regards, appreciated.

Hope you had fun reading.


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